


Splinter

by jenni3penny



Category: Lie to Me (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-08-08 08:10:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 16,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7750006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenni3penny/pseuds/jenni3penny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Why was it always her responsibility to stitch them back together when he was always the one to so ruthlessly shred them up? Let it be his turn, then. She was fed up and done." Callian, in sixteen weeks. Post-series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**_Prologue:_ **

He'd been gone four months, but it'd taken only four days (fewer, really) to realize that she'd been the sliver living under his skin. She'd been the singular thought that'd winced and ached whenever anyone or anything (a smell, a smile, an accent or a laugh) had brushed up against a reminder of her. And putting miles, landmasses, bloody big bodies of water between them... hadn't done shit to ease that niggle of pain that lived right underneath the thought of her.

That sliver'd been his fault, mainly. He knew that much - wasn't dumb enough to try and pretend any different. And he'd stepped back from the hurt and placed space between them. He'd hoped maybe open air and time would salvage something out of the wreckage he'd created.

The last fight had been beyond the worst they'd ever duked out, it'd been mean-spirited and doused cold and somewhere in the middle of it he and she, the both of them, had evolved into creatures he couldn't even recognize. Because she'd been beyond fed up with him, with his childishness - impetuous and impertinent, s'what she'd implied. Though, she'd phrased it more along the lines of _“gutless and selfish son of a bitch!”_.

Coulda sworn he'd swung himself right back into his marriage, scrapping it up with Zoe rather than with his own dear-heart, best-friend, rainy-day-pal. Coulda sworn he hadn't meant to make her cry. But he had, actually. And scrupulously watching her watch him through hot and furious (furiously falling) tears?

That'd been the omen, hadn't it? The sign that had clearly said “ _Exit_ ”.

That'd been four months before, though.

That'd been ages ago... and still this little tear in his usually thicker-than-thin skin.

And she was the thing that ached on him when pressed against, even when everything else was healthy.


	2. Week One

**_Week One:_ **

She spent the first week of his absence silently seething, still angry while her thoughts rioted through her head. Her (their?) staff obviously noted those particular lines of anger and hurt on her face, kept a berth from her that said she was flashing facial and physical cues all over the place. At first she didn't care much because, well, because she had a right this time. Didn't she? She wasn't the one that had just up and left in the middle of three cases and too many meetings to handle on her own...

But then, pride and blessed responsibility had kept her schedule perfectly kept, her space pristine and clean and so far from being as messy as any other situation he generally managed to put her in. She nimbly dispelled every and any theory uttered by their employees as to the idea that _she must be going after him at some point_...

And why should she tromp after him this time??

 _He_ was the one that had just up and left – left a ridiculous and childish note on her desk with his flight details and that was all.

 _He_ was the one that had started the fight and then taken a runaway flight (on the very _last_ clean business credit card they had available to them).

Gutless, selfish (self righteous and petulant) son of a bitch...

Why was it always her responsibility to stitch them back together when he was always the one to so ruthlessly shred them up?

Let it be his turn, then. She was fed up and done.


	3. Week Two

**_Week Two:_ **

The second week away from her (a fortnight into his supposed 'research sabbatical') he met a woman in Guadalajara that had distinctly reminded him of her. Right down the the way her eyes went slim and thin as she smiled in capricious humor and tipped the back of her hand to the small bar table, fingertips up-turned and half curled. The difference in skin tone, the darker color of her eyes - neither mattered. Not when he noted how similar the slim inside of her wrist was, how familiar the length of her fingers seemed as she stretched them out and let him finger-tip trace the lines on the inside of her palm.

She had the movements of the woman who could somehow cage him up with just a sharpened glance.

She was about Gill's height, smelled just close enough when he closed his eyes and growled his mouth up the side of her throat. Just close enough that he could squeeze his eyelids shut and shove her up against the wall, find a pair of curving hips that matched his hands in the way he'd imagined... Size and shape and smell had been a near match. So he averted the smarter of his senses, closed his eyes to reality and just leaned forward into how similar she was, even as a negative opposite. Dark where Gill was light, brown skinned but fair when he closed his eyes, fair and just and sweet and so fucking self righteous in her goddamn innocence, her faith and trust in him.

He blindly fucked her (both of them at once) up against the wall, hand clasped over her mouth to raggedly hush the whispered and panted Spanish. He knows he was rough, uncontained and angry and feeling bitterly exiled (even if it _had_ been his own choice, his idea, to leave her). He fucked a woman in Guadalajara that had distinctly, just by one twitch in her eyes as she'd smiled, reminded him of her.

Just two weeks away from her and he was taking blazing torches to every bridge he could find in the Southern Hemisphere.

He damn well had to get out of Mexico.


	4. Week Three

_**Week Three:** _

It took the entirety of three forced weeks.

But after twenty and some days, she finally let herself cry.

She allowed herself sadness and loss and all while sitting in the emptiness of his space.

It had started an hour before when Ria had asked, with cat-curious idiocy, what exactly the fight could possibly have been about – for it to go this far, last this long, carry so much distance and weight. It had started because the younger woman had instantly realized, as the words had stupidly tripped her lips, that this was about far more than friendship or business or even just a single fight. This was an epic, blooming out before them and she was the one asking silly questions that had obvious answers while standing in the middle of the aftermath. And Gillian had declined answering, had dismissed everyone's very existence in trade for the emptiness of his space. She'd very nearly run for the sanctity of his office, not her own.

At first she had, probably naively, thought that the space may be a comfort to her. Like a balm.

Instead she ended up on the rickety stairs in his inner office, squeezing her eyes shut against tears and pretending that when she opened them he'd be standing with a silly smirk at the bottom, her forgotten shoes looped in his fingers while he waited.

He wasn't there, where she needed him to be, when she finally opened her eyes.

Just empty shoes laying on the floor of his study and the smell of him, after more than twenty days, was starting to dissipate.


	5. Week Four

**_Week Four:_ **

A sliver, splinter, it'd fester. It'd sicken itself in order to heal.

It'd infect the body just to expel the diseased and foreign from the skin.

That's what he told himself, a month in and drunk and calling her cell phone in the middle of the Washington night (but too damn bright a breaking morning in Europe, wasn't it? Couldn't remember the last sunrise he'd seen while still this pissed on cheap wine).

He told himself that he'd have to let whatever this disease was fester a little more, a little longer.

“I dunno, darling,” he also told the cheerful recording of her voice. “I just... y'know that I miss you.”

He let the air hang deadened quiet, let it hook like a curtain between them to mark the distance (both geographical and emotional).

“Miss you, Gill.”

He stayed up awhile longer and longer to see if she'd call back after listening.

Which meant he didn't sleep at all while in Amsterdam.


	6. Week Five

_**Week Five:** _

She paid off the entire balance on the credit card bill – and no, not because she felt guilty or sorry or apologetic in any particular way. Not then, anyhow. She was still far too busy being pissed as hell at him and wrangling questions about his sudden disappearance.

But she paid it, using monies they'd gotten from the government contract she'd negotiated without asking his opinion or permission. Because she didn't have to, did she? Not if he was going to run off from a fight and – _God_ , it'd been such a stupid fight, too. It'd been no different than any other.

Except for the last look he'd given her, that last wincing glance before he'd turned his back on putting any more effort into keeping them tethered somehow together.

So she paid the bill, in all honesty, just so that she'd know if he used it again.

Just so she'd know, maybe, where he was and what he was doing and whether or not he was safe.

Because habit was habit and love was love and, for fuck's sake... She missed him too.


	7. Week Six

_**Week Six:** _

“Dad called.”

Her eyes flinched a little in response to Emily's obviously accusatory tone but she breathed in a quietness that coated her own voice, made it even and calm as she pressed the phone closer to her ear. “Did he? Where is he now?”

“He was drunk.”

She didn't have the heart to tell the girl, who was still a precocious little child in her head – despite being in sophomore college classes – that Cal Lightman had been drunk and calling for the better of two weeks.

She hadn't ever answered, even that time when the call had interrupted a conversation with Loker and the younger man had passed her curiously concerned look.

But that didn't mean she hadn't listened, that she hadn't found herself sobbing openly over her own kitchen sink one morning when the words _“Can't fuckin' breathe straight with you so far away, darling,”_ had echoed out into empty space from speakerphone.

_“And I'll be fucked if I can find my shoes without'cha either.”_

She'd sobbed harder and laughed a sort of hysteria into the air because, Sweet Christ, even when he was being self destructive and assholic and twisting every knife he'd ever slid between her ribs – he could still make her laugh a little.

_“C'mere, Shoes. Itty shoes. C'mere.”_

He'd obviously been ducking over or under something in search of them because she'd heard the panted and 'oof'ed noises he'd been making just before drunkenly humming, _“M'sorry, Gill. I've found 'em. Won't bother you again.”_

She hadn't believed that, not at first.

_“G'night, my love.”_

But then she also hadn't heard from him since.

“Y'gotta talk to him, Gill. There's something seriously wrong. He's scaring me.”

His sudden silence was starting to unnerve her just as much. It wasn't a matter of pride anymore, not really. Because he hadn't used the corporate card since that day either. It was a matter of fear - silent terror at the number of things he could do to himself with the whole wide world and all his own self hatred at his disposal. 

“I'll take care of it, Em.”

 

 


	8. Week Seven

**_Week Seven:_ **

He hadn't changed his voicemail since long before he'd left. It was the same, unaltered, and the cheeky heat of his accent sent a surprising stab of desire and want white-hot through her. So much so that she sucked down a breath and released it slowly before leaving a message.

“You need to call me. Sober. You're scaring your daughter.”

Her whole body flopped back onto the bed after shutting off the phone, letting it drop onto the mattress beside her carelessly. And she curled a little onto her side, unconsciously drawing her bare legs up under the buttoned shirt she was wearing, one that she'd bought for him and never actually given over. One that had been meant as a long ago gift and had never gotten wrapped, one that had been rejected when she'd realized he'd slept with Clara only days after she'd bought it.

She slept in it sometimes, on and off. To silently punish him, probably (or, rather, herself).

Or, maybe, to try and remember what it was like to adore him enough to want to buy such things.


	9. Week Eight

_**Week Eight:** _

He woke flat on his back in a horribly tacky hotel room, parched in the mouth and fuzzed along the teeth. And the first thought he had was that she'd sounded so awfully tired, that her voice (because he'd learned a thing or two about hearin' things in her voice) was exhausted. Unconsciously he'd probably also realized that while half drunk the night before, listening to the sound of her from miles away, before guilt and all the rest had swallowed him farther down into the bottle.

But in the bright light of hangover, his guilt gave way to his concern...

Hated it when she sounded so worn in and broke down. Hated knowing that, in general, he was the cause of that tremor to an otherwise warm and pretty sounding voice. And knowing that, being perfectly aware of the things he could do to her without even tryin', that's exactly why he forced himself into a flash freezing shower rather than calling her back.

He'd spent weeks ignoring the fact that he'd caused her some righteous pain, that last fight being the sourest swallow for both of them. And she'd spent weeks with a wall up between them too, hadn't she? Not answering phone calls, not returning them either. Didn't seem she was all that worried about getting him back in his office this time. Or home and in bed, tucked up and safe, the way she had after Zoe'd left, and when Emily had gone off to become brilliant in California.

But then, he'd been the one to tell her that things'd be better if they just didn't have to look at each other anymore. And while most every fiber of him disagreed with that estimation, one little sliver of reality, living right under sore skin, was telling him that space was probably better for the both of them...

He'd been the one to say it, near hysterical and angry and flinging accusations across the space of his office.

But she'd been the one to agree, beautiful blue eyes full of fury and tears, with a flippant little _“Maybe they would. Sometimes I can't stand to look at you anymore, Cal.”_

Wasn't much fond of looking at himself these days, either...

Wouldn't mind looking at her, though. Because he missed a long list of things about home but right at the top of the list (besides all things 'Emily') was the way she could smile as though forgiveness was her birthright.

He decided, while rinsing his mouth and spitting onto the floor of the shower stall, that maybe he needed to go somewhere that had always felt like home but still far enough away from her that space would mend things up a little.

He decided, huddled away from the ice cold spray of the shower, that he needed to go somewhere he could just be, and without puttin' pain on the people he loved.


	10. WeekNine

_**Week Nine:** _

He mailed the postcard from the airport in Morocco, one hesitation in his hand before he stuffed it through the slot and squeezed his eyes shut against instant regret as it fell irretrievable and away from still outstretched fingers. Sure, he'd instantly regret dropping it off but then, after a strong and solid (and utterly fuckin' sober) breath, he realized that it'd been exactly what he'd needed to do.

Because he sure couldn't face her, let alone disappointment in her voice, at the moment.

But a silly little postcard, just a piece of paper that she'd stuff into the 'Cal Lightman Museum of Ephemeral Idiocy' (a fat blue folder he damn well knew she kept hidden low in her desk)... that'd at least tie a thread from here to there, yeah?

A picture of scrubby palms and sand and the word ' _Marrakech_ ' scrolled over the front – innocent enough, he thought.

And all he'd written was _“Miss your smile, love.”_

_Innocent_ , yeah? She'd know his hand-writing right off. She'd know it was meant entirely for her despite the fact he'd simply addressed it to the Group and not specifically to her – because something had kept his hand from writing her name or his own.

It seemed, considering he'd cleaned up and bought fresh clothing and an airline ticket (with his own money, _thankyouverymuch_ ), much more like a token of adoration than just a note home.

It felt more like love than numbly fumbling two heart-strings back tied together with a stupid piece of paper and an apology that didn't sound anything like ' _I'm sorry_ ' but echoed a little more along the lines of ' _I'm desperate without you_ '.

He'd call her when he landed, before heading out. He promised himself, forced that promise on himself as he stepped in the direction of his boarding gate – he _would_ call her. Maybe, hopefully, this time she'd answer.


	11. Week Ten

_**Week Ten:** _

His call finally came while she was sunken low in the tub, already through three glasses of expensive wine and possibly pouting, wallowing in the fact that he _still_ hadn't called yet. And it wasn't the fact that she was completely naked, or stark bare emotional that had her accepting the call with silence.

It was an absolute loss of what to possibly say to him.

She didn't know where to go, what to say, how to get back on track to “ _Hey, You. About time you called_.”.

Because her mouth was frozen to the tune of “ _Why did you leave me?_ ” piping through her thoughts.

Like horrible elevator music and on hold and stuck in a place somewhere between loving and hating and -

“You're there.” His accent was gritty, quiet but relieved and there was a warmth of affection that she hadn't expected. “Love, I can hear you breathing.”

How could he laugh like that, just a breathy sound in his voice that he'd know she could place? At a time like this? When she hadn't had the surety of his banter in over two months and damn him for not being closer than where ever it was he'd landed now.

“I'm here.” She made sure the response was blank and slow, the buzz from the wine numbing her a little as she reached for the glass again. “Still.”

“I'm sorry, Gill.”

There were only a few three-word-variations that could come from him that would stump her, stall her quiet and utterly confused, always blind and blank for an answer. And it seemed he always knew exactly when to use one of them sincerely, exactly when it would give him the most leverage and knock her back some, despite how frustrated or furious she was with him.

_I miss you._

_I'm sorry, Gill._

_Love you, darling._

“Then come home,” she told the lip of the wine glass, eyes squeezed shut against crying and the scent of the bath oils, the drink, mineral and wet ozone of water surrounding her as she pressed the phone harder to her ear. Pressing his voice closer to damp skin and heat.

She missed the smell of him. The nearness of him.

The sudden way his laughter made his face longer and leaner and brightened his eyes into a multitude of colors. 

She was sorry too, wasn't she?

She loved him, in her way, in the way any keeper loved a lion (on guard and prepared but full of affection, pride).

“Don't think... I can't yet.”

And for a moment all the anger that she thought she had forgiven him swept back up her throat, flushing her more than the heat of the water as her fingertips tightened on the glass. “Cal - ”

“Things I need to finish first, Gill.” Sincerity, sincerity and honesty in his voice and she didn't quite know what to do with it, how to respond to it. She hadn't expected him, when he finally called, to be so obviously remorseful or quite so truthful. But then... it'd been weeks (months, even). Maybe she was losing her edge when it came to hearing the truth or the lie in the voice of Cal Lightman. “Started working on somethin'. Theory's a little shaky but... need to know it's okay with you that I stay awhile?”

Okay? He needed to know that it was _okay_?

That she was all right with having been left scrambling to carry on the work he so often reminded her was _his_? That she didn't mind having been left alone to hold the weight of a business that could, with any possible misstep, crumble down around her ankles? He needed to know that it was okay with her that when she needed him, really desperately needed him close... he'd run away.

He'd run farther and faster than ever before.

How in the hell was she supposed to be ' _okay_ '?

“You've been gone two months already, Cal.” But even as she said it she knew that the vitriol she felt had been tempered by the very fact that, regardless of what he'd done... she missed him, she loved him, and she damn well worried about him when he was being an absolute idiot. “Where the hell are you right now?”

“Umm... Walkabout?” His answer was meant to be amusing but she heard the shame of it, she could see it on his face with her eyes closed and the scent of good wine mingling with heat around her.

“You're in Australia?!”

“Not technically speakin', no.” And it was strange to hear this repentance in him, strange to hear it so easily given and softly, ashamed even. Not when she couldn't see his face to see if he was hiding or holding the truth carefully bridged up between them. “Usin' the phone at the embassy.”

Gill sighed, forcing her fingers looser on the glass. “Which embassy?”

The laughter came again and she realized that it was the very vocal evidence of a sober and utterly nervous Lightman. Cal being nervous, the damned Eighth Wonder of the World. It didn't entirely surprise her – it happened. It did, however, very faintly curb her anger. Because it was so infrequent, so clean and honest in the breathy chuckle he gave up over the scratchy phone line. “Does it matter?”

“It does to me,” she demanded before sipping down the last of the wine. “I want to know that you're okay.”

“I'm okay, darling. British Embassy” he told her fast, gave up the information like another apology but gentler. After a moment his voice went even lighter and quieter over the line. “You all right?”

“I'm all right.”

Saying ' _all right_ ' was better than ' _okay_ ', anyhow.

She was certainly not fucking ' _okay_ ' with the situation.

Even if it did make her hope more, make her fantasize about him finding some sort of peace and calm and bringing his downward spiral back upwards toward her.

“I'll check in with ya,” Cal offered but it sounded distinctly like a question and in the space it took him to take a breath she'd lifted the glass to study how fractured the bath water seemed in its reflection. A distraction, something to keep her balanced as his voice murmured nearer the tone of a lover who felt the compulsion to take care, the need to bend into compromise. “Regular calls, all right? Yeah?”

This wasn't the Cal that had left her. Not at all.

Maybe the sound of his voice matched what she knew but... this was a man she hadn't heard from in years.

This was the man she'd fallen in love with the first time, right? The first out of plenty Cal Lightmans.

This was the man she'd met behind the mask, who'd so desperately wanted to tell the truth to the world and looked at her like she could help him do it.

Gillian sucked in a breath, nodded once even though she knew he couldn't see it. “Regular, as in 'scheduled'. And if you miss one, Cal, so help me God - ”

“I won't.” She could hear the happiness in his voice, even if it was cautious. “Not if you'll answer.”

“Pick a time, I'll answer,” she agreed.

“How's about now?” Happiness went hopeful and she felt her face flush warmer in response to the sound of him, felt her skin tingle up at how stirred up he sounded to be making such a little deal between them. It seemed like something so small – just a phone call. “Gimme... every ten days.”

But now... just a phone call was everything. It was all they had.

She shook her head against it. “Five.”

“Need more than that to get back and forth,” he said, sounding agitated and excitable all at once, as though he wanted to comply but he also really didn't. As though he was stuck between pleasing her and settling himself. “Seven's good? Every week?”

“It's good,” Gill agreed quietly but quickly, her hand stretching out to set the empty wine glass along the edge of the tub and beside the bottle. She considered pouring more and just looped a finger on the bottle neck, her elbow setting to the edge of the tub to keep the chilled condensation from the heat of the bathwater. “What time is it there?”

“Noon, your tomorrow.”

How very far away he'd run from her...

Shifted in space and time just to get away from _them_ and the fact that she'd dared finally face what both of them often desperately ignored: a) he was an ass, and b) she loved him anyhow.

Gill unintentionally made a weak noise in her throat as her head rolled back into the stall wall, “You went to the opposite side of the planet _and_ into the future to get away from me?”

“Quarantined myself, Gill.” The correction was swift and so very assured, so assertive, that she didn't know if she'd ever trusted anything he'd said to her before so much as that. “There's a difference.”

“I really wish you'd just come home.”

“I will. When I'm finished.” Even in remorse he sounded sure of his decision - which actually assured her even more. “When I can.”

Silence as big as the space between them had become.

And she couldn't bring herself to say 'goodbye' when it'd taken him so damn long to say 'hello' again.

But then, “Gill?”

“Hmmm?”

“Can hear the water. You in a bath?” Now he sounded sheepish, younger than he had in years.

“Mmm hmm.”

“Hmm.” The noise he made over the line almost had her laughing – because it was more guttural and reactionary than expected, a grunt that was more physical response than answer. “I've still got excellent timing, eh?”

“I think it is, actually.”

The laugh this time was clean, stripped of everything but his pleasure. “Yeah?”

_God_ , hearing his voice that way had her exhaling so slowly.

“Yeah,” she smiled the word out and while the action surprised her, she let it carry into the rest of the words too. “I miss you.”

She hadn't heard a groan so low from him in ages, even since long before he'd left. “Gillian?”

The smile went wider, despite the fact she tried to curb it. The smile went wider and her fury diminished to the echo of another groan floating into her ear. “Cal?”

“I'm sorry, darling.”

He'd already said it once but the second time held just as much sincerity. Just as much honesty.

“Me too.”

Sure, it'd been months. Yeah, she hadn't heard the sweetened way his accent hugged around her name in at least ten weeks. But she'd be able to hear the truth in his voice til she was buried in the ground.


	12. Week Eleven

_**Week Eleven:** _

He laid still in the smell of smoke and imagined the look on her pretty face as she read the postcard. She hadn't said anything about it when they'd talked but then, she probably hadn't gotten it yet. So he made it his own warm fantasy, closed his eyes to the sun, one bare arm hooked under his head and a slight sweat starting to form along the base of his hairline. He'd rolled up shirt sleeves while in Port Moresby and the afternoon had been warm enough to keep them up, his skin slowly tanning darker after days of the same. And he'd been imagining her finding that piece of mail since they'd passed on by a post office.

Would she smile, keep it in that desk drawer of hers? Or would she dump it in the bin and legitimately consider murdering him once he finally got back? The way her voice had warmed toward the end of the phone call? Almost all heat and ache? He was hoping the former was still the most viable of options.

And he was just sweated tired enough to play into that fantasy, that hopeful little image of her standing behind her desk and smiling as she read the few words he'd been able to give her before they'd spoken. But, invariably, thinkin' about the phone call led to thinking about Gillian Foster in a bath and he was more tired than he'd realized considering he just groaned his head farther to the side and let himself think it, imagine it, see it.

Could see her hair knotted up on the top of her head, probably longer now that it had been.

The curves of her shoulders and down her long throat, tops of her excellent breasts stroked by water.

Christ... They'd been far too close to him seeing her naked in any environment just before he'd ditched on her. And maybe that'd been part of the frenzy in the fight. Because he'd been getting choked by the fact he desperately wanted what he certainly shouldn't have. Because she'd been getting stupidly closer and closer to letting him have it regardless of how terrible an idea it would have been – and he'd seen it coming. It's why the fight had stung so sharply between them, yeah? Because it was fighting or fucking and Gillian Foster was worth far more to him than just fucking. Pretty much worth everything, really. And, really, as she'd cried, he'd seen that so suddenly clearly. Clear in her tears was the ultimatum, the endgame choice.

It was _All Gillian_ or _Nothing At All_ \- and he'd been bloody well terrified.

Didn't save him from still wanting it, though. Nor day-dreaming about the possible having.

Didn't stop him from hearing her wanting in her voice just as well as she'd probably heard his own as they awkwardly tried to piece themselves back together over a truly horrible phone connection.

He startled to the sound of a male voice calling his name, one that was heavily accented and taunting him. A flood of not-English came at him, a dialect of Fore he was far from comfortably fluent in. Caught the gist of it, though. Grinned when he realized that one of the younger men was takin' the piss out of him for near napping in the afternoon.

“Yeah, yeah.” Cal shoved himself up on his elbows, let his boots cross one over the other as he lifted his jaw in the other man's direction. “Laugh it up.”

Another string of teasing about losing his virility to age came at him and Cal simply made a playfully crude gesture, watched laughter take over the other man's face. He studied that face, intrigued by it for a moment. Laughter and an unmitigated love. _Love_. From someone who shoulda been a stranger to him but had simply trusted the innate goodness of his intentions.

Maybe just the way she had, more than a decade before.

Didn't make sense, that someone could just love him ( _him_ especially). Not for any reason or gain.

Whether it was her or a man who could barely pronounce his name.

Love and trust. Emotional expression. Love had an expression, didn't it? He knew it on her face well as he knew any other basic emotion (when he was actually trusting what he was reading off her). But he couldn't pin it to one muscle or movement. It was more than one shift or twitch. A combination of expressions that stacked up into one encompassing emotion?

It wasn't a sound theory, nor a good one.

But, well, it was a start...


	13. Week Twelve

**_Week Twelve:_ **

Tuesday had brought her his mangled heart on a postcard, one that'd had her smiling and raging and laughing into tears at once. She'd seen the front of it as Anna had tentatively handed it over atop the rest of the mail, a look on the younger woman's face that read like a young and green soldier, mentally preparing for the riot of a first battle. And she'd instantly known, had been absolutely sure of its origin just by the way the other woman had watched her face with a combination of interest and terror.

“Not a word,” she'd remarked dryly, tucking it into her chest with the rest of the mail before lifting her coffee back up with the other hand. “They don't need to know until I tell them.”

The simple blink Anna had given her had been the most sympathetic silent agreement she'd seen in years. Christ... that girl was good. Such an excellent find, such a beautiful balance of intuition and empathy and smarts. She'd made a mental note to put the senior assistant before some higher level training materials sooner rather than later.

And then she'd hidden in her office, standing immobile behind her desk as she'd read so few words and heard so much more in them while they re-played in her head. She'd heard them in his voice, fighting the flux of feelings they brought her for only a moment. A moment, a breath, and then she'd let herself cry.

 _He_ missed _her_ smile?

She missed the fact that he waited hovering by her door if he planned to leave before she did at night.

She missed hearing him down the hall, pitched voice and all, long before he ever made it near her.

She missed the full flat of his palm pressing comfort or humor against any bit of her body that was close.

And that had been the beginning but by Thursday morning she had a flood of emails that she hadn't been expecting, all from him and all loaded with attachments. Photos upon photos from so many different places that she was having a hard time tracking exactly where he _hadn't_ been as opposed to where he had. When he'd stopped using the business credit card she'd lost the ability to find a spot on a map and say ' _He's all right, he's safe, he's in that spot right there..._ ”. But then a deluge of photos arrived and she lost more than half the morning to the study of the unfamiliar faces he'd been searching.

And she hadn't necessarily needed his notes (which were a mess to her but very clearly organized to anyone who could live inside the chaotically brilliant mind of a man like Cal Lightman), she hadn't really needed to see his commentary to understand where he was going with it.

He wasn't going anywhere specific, not in a physical sense.

He was going deeper into a study that she could finally find some peace in.

It wasn't about running anymore (though, it absolutely _had_ been, at first).

He was finding variations of love (familial, platonic, romantic, vitriolic, affectionate, endearing, enraged) on the faces of strangers.

He was finding his way back, by way of a postcard and a smile and photos of a feeling that obviously terrified but enthralled him.

“Doctor Foster?”

“I'm sorry, Anna,” she answered after the interruption, head lifting to catch the clock. “I missed the - ”

“I re-scheduled it.” The younger woman grinned with such an endearing heat, something that said there was more than just work between them. There was friendly affection in the way Anna handed a steaming mug toward her. “You were so focused.”

She felt the coffee heat her hands through ceramic as she looked down over her desk, seeing it suddenly from the perspective of a stranger. It was just as messy as his notes had seemed to her at first. She'd printed copies of photos, some of his notes. She'd Sharpied stark circles around certain facial features and minute muscle movements, noted the expressional differences or similarities. It near had her laughing as she realized that she'd simply done exactly what he usually would have done.

She'd fallen directly into love with his research, no fear or caution and suddenly she felt closer to him than she had in months.

Anna gave her an interested dip of the head, fingers waving over the messed desk. “Can I help?”

Gill nodded as she blinked over a photo of a fair skinned woman, smiling and unaware of the camera on her. Totally ignorant that all her best and sweetest emotions were mingled evident in bright blue eyes. “Absolutely.”

It was a photo of a woman happily loving whomever she was looking at and all her pleasure, her affection, it lived in the color of the eyes, the crinkling lines around them as she'd smiled.

He'd sent that one on its own, entirely alone. Just a notation in the email that said “ _That's the way you look at me, Gill. Sometimes. When I'm not being a complete arse._ ”

She felt her smile go shy as she pulled that one aside, not ready to share its contents with anyone. Not when it seemed like a secret he'd finally shared with her, after years and battles and scars between them...

Suddenly she couldn't wait for him to call. They had so much to discuss and, finally, not anything broken or battered between them. This was their work, their love, their passion – combined with everything they'd ever been or even fantasized they _could_ be.

This was the healthy way back for them, regardless of how long it took.

She was sure of it then.


	14. Week Thirteen

**_Week Thirteen:_ **

She listened quietly with the phone pressed close, hearing every saddened and ached inflection in his voice. He told her slowly, tiredly, about a boy who had just wanted his mother, just cried and cried for her and didn't give it a break through three and a half nights. An orphaned child who screamed or wailed or sniffled through sun-hot hours and long nights and then -

“He just stopped, Gill. Sudden like.” That voice went desperate, terrified and concerned. “They don't know why, none of them could explain it.”

“You could,” she plied back patiently over the line, staring at the shadows on her bedroom ceiling, wide awake in the wash of his angsted tone. “You understood it.”

“Took him three days and he was done. Realized she was gone and nothin' he could do. Poof, not comin' back.”

“Acceptance,” she murmured, lifting her hand and stretching out her fingers and wishing she could reach for him, knowing he was in searing and truthful daylight and she was still in blissfully quiet darkness. It was cool as the weather had started turning and her fingertips nearly touched a shadow that she could momentarily pretend was his.

“Smart little git.” Cal half chuckled but sadly, his voice and accent still resonating with sympathy for the child. “Accepted it a hell of a lot quicker than I ever did, eh?”

She let her hand drop to the center of her sternum, fingertips rubbing idly against skin above the hem of the t-shirt she was wearing. “Have you, Cal? Accepted it?”

“Think so,” he muttered, and if she closed her eyes, just turned her head a fraction, she could pretend it was him whispering along her ear and tracing a touch to her collarbone. “Think I had to leave this time regardless, darling.”

The reality of what he'd said skidded up her reverie, made her pause and press along the base of her throat in concern. “Yeah?”

There was a hum of silence at first, as though he was carefully calculating the weight of words and how much of that weight he could send over an untrustworthy phone line. They'd lost calls before, had to re-connect in the middle of a conversation.

Because he'd called more often than just his agreed allotment – and she'd made sure to answer whenever it had happened. Seemed he called whenever he got near enough a phone and with more than a few minutes to spare.

“Wasn't just the fight. Wasn't you or Em leaving. Was all of it together.”

Well, that wasn't a surprise to her, not really, and she smiled ruefully at his admittance. “Cal - ”

“My daughter's grown, yeah? Gotta let her be grown. And being in love with your best friend isn't the easiest thing to accept either, now is it?”

So conversational, really... The acceptance and admittance that he was in love with her and that, all in all, that was one of the exact reasons he had tucked tail and run. Like a coward - but an honest one.

Cal Lightman – selfish, insensitive, impetuous, but brilliant and beautiful, noble Cal Lightman.

Was in love. With her. And _admitting_ it, aloud.

“ _Cal_.”

“And I've accepted _that_ , I think,” he rattled on, seemingly ignoring any trepidation he may have heard in her voice. “Second night he was crying ten feet away and I just thought... Gill could make him stop, should be his mother. Gillian's - ”

“Did you really just tell me you're in love with me? On the phone? While you're - ”

“I'd bring him home for you if I thought I wouldn't get caught at it.” He was entirely deflecting the seriousness of what he'd said but with a conversation that supported its veracity instead of negating it. He was admitting it in the only way he could. Drop the information like a bomb just to comment on how attractively the atomic cloud plumed up after it. “They frown upon smuggling children all over the world, y'know?”

She couldn't help but laugh a little at how mischievously teasing the commentary was, especially in comparison to how heavy a conversation they were having. “You should probably leave him right where he is.”

“See, and I was a bit worried you'd actually be for it,” he taunted with relieved mirth and warmth, his accent rife with a surprisingly thick loving. “You got a heart too big, Foster. One that even orphans can fall for.”

Like little boys who had lost their mothers, ranted and wailed until they could finally accept it.

“Doesn't matter how many times you need to hear it 'cuz I'm gonna keep saying it, Gill,” he exhaled hard into her lack of a response. “I'm sorry. For the leaving - and the rest, y'know?”

“Please come home, Cal?” Because it was getting colder and darker earlier into the night and when he called late, kept her up into the chill with a voice so achingly soft... it made the need for him to be closer seem larger than life. It filled her bedroom and rented up the space inside her, made her ache between her thighs, into her back, in tightened shoulders.

She didn't _want_ him home, she _needed_ him home. And soon.

“Please?” she whispered the word again, hearing the way a winding groan came back from him.

“Soon.” Cal's voice had strength to it, surety in a precise tone. “Two weeks. Yeah? Into Dulles, okay?”

“Yes.”

_Yes_.

What else was there to say?

When she was getting him back, but with a surplus of something positive, something that was making his voice so much clearer to her ear, less muddled or frenetic.

Something had altered in him and while she knew that, really, he would still be the same... he'd still be reckless, he'd still be self righteous and annoying.

But he'd also be... more.

“All right,” he grinned as he said it and she heard that grin from worlds away. “I'll be there. You pick me up?”

“Of course I will,” she answered around a yawn, a little grumped noise following as she snugged harder into her pillow and sighed.

“Bit late for you, eh?” He seemed to realize the time difference as he said it, making a sound in his throat and repeating that word that kept coming up between them. “Sorry.”

“It's okay,” she whispered, wedging the phone between her ear and the pillow so it would stay as she curled the comforter up over her shoulder, cradling onto her side.

“Is it now?” he asked, tone banking suddenly serious once again. _Okay_ again? Was it? “Gill - ”

“Late doesn't matter when I'm already in bed, Cal. It's getting colder, though.” Her interruption was intentional, forcing him to let go of his guilt long enough to enjoy a late night chat and the intimacy of talking in the middle of the night while she was cuddled up in just a t-shirt and panties. “Come home. I want you here for the holidays.”

The space of their silences was getting smaller but she imagined that was only so because each of those spaces was being filled by a wanting and an understanding that was finally bringing them back closer together.

“Tell Em I'm coming back?” he asked of her. “See if she'll - ”

“We already have plans for Thanksgiving.” Gillian smiled into it, could nearly see his responding grin at the idea of her and Emily over a Thanksgiving dinner table. They'd done so before, shared a holiday meal – even if it wasn't on the holiday itself. And it always seemed to fire him up into a domestic frenzy, always seemed to soften his edges some and allow the sweet silliness of him to show through. Apron and all. “Come home.”

“I will.” His agreement was fast and full of... pride. But honest pride, not a smug sort. He was thoroughly pleased that she was demanding he be home for the holidays. “Hangin' up now. Get some sleep, all right?”

“No, don't,” Gill sharpened between them, making a sound of disagreement so tightly pressed to the phone that there was no doubt in her mind that he'd heard it. She didn't feel ashamed of it, though. Not when he hummed a sound in response. “Don't. Just talk.”

A light little laugh came off him, surprised and happily made. “Til you sleep?”

“Yes, please.” She curled her fingers up between her chin and her collarbone, closed her eyes after having murmured in answer.

“You tell me 'goodnight' and I'll tell you a story, yeah? Til you sleep.”

“Goodnight, Cal.” Even she heard how much it sounded more like ' _I love you_ ' than anything else.

“All right, love, so,” his breath hitched bemused on the story, sweet and warm as he talked her toward sleep, “a very very _very_ long time ago, ages ago really...”


	15. Week Fourteen

**_Week Fourteen:_ **

He'd texted her pictures before and more often as they'd found a way to speak gently to each other again. Outback sunsets and dust-dirty shoes, Indonesian plants she couldn't identify and flowers that were beautiful but strange. Animals with faintly familiar names and even one of himself, oddly captured and half his face missing from frame - but she saw enough of the scruffed up beard to be entirely intrigued.

And more than enough of his eyes to breathe deeply for the first time in over three months.

But nothing, not one picture, nothing like the beautiful and wide smile the unfamiliar little boy was giving the camera. All wide grinning and chubby baby face, scrunched eyes from an obvious giggle and little hands aimed toward the cell phone in obvious and interested wanting, loving.

She texted back after a moment, the boy's dark but happy eyes in her thoughts.

_Leave it where you found it. You wouldn't do well in prison._

It took a few minutes for him to answer, but she smiled as she opened the text.

_Could probably get you your own anyhow. This one's been spoiled rotten._

The implication stopped her smack in the middle of the hallway, coffee in one hand and the cell phone staring at her from the other. She didn't know what to say, not at first. But she felt time drain around her as she stared at the screen and mentally fumbled. He hadn't just told her he was in love with her, not _just_ that...He'd been consistently trying to prove it. And by offering her whatever guidelines she wanted. Whatever codicils were necessary for the end result to be _him_ having _her_.

It was his way of saying that he was prepared, he'd _accepted_ all of it.

Even if it did come off with a bit of jackassery.

She sucked down a breath and answered with slow precision, feeling her lips curve up into a smile as she hit 'Send'.

_Have one already. She's coming with me to pick you up._


	16. Week Fifteen: Cal

**_Week Fifteen: Cal_ **

He realized, halfway over the Pacific, that he was terrified to go home.

He'd subconsciously known it for days, right? Been fidgety and nervous and all pent-up energy rebounding through his limbs. He'd packed and unpacked, packed up again. Not much stuff, but he'd put it in and out of the second hand duffel multiple times. He'd spent three days in Perth, been poked and prodded at, makin' sure he wasn't bringing home some freakish Papuan influenza or (considerin' recent mis-adventures) some sort of, well, international venereal hoodoo. He'd tried to busy himself with notes and photos, using the research to distract himself. Instead he'd ended up calling Gillian and annoying the unholy hell out of her with random chatter and lame banter while fidgeting through coffee shops or bars or, once, a hole-in-the-wall bookstore. He'd started reading an excerpt from 'Ulysses', thickening up his accent and playfully makin' voices just to try and keep her from hanging up on what he figured was a busy morning.

Her laughter had been perfect and warm and full-throated, _“God, you're an idiot.”_

_“Not a fan of Joyce? Can find some Shakespeare 'round here.”_

_“I don't need Shakespeare, Cal. Just you. Here.”_

So, sure, yeah... considering the flush heat in her voice and the way she'd said that last bit? All around clean bill of health was top of the list.

And the last call he'd made before stepping on a plane? She'd had that same flared up energy in her tone, a warm pleasure in the way she'd sighed just before _“You're really coming home?”_

He was really goin' home. And it was scaring the piss out of him.

Standing in the loo of a plane too small, letting all the air out of his lungs and past his lips as he studied himself in the mirror... and absolutely horrified by the proposition of seeing the only two people on the planet he'd wanted to see in four long months. He'd been surrounded by strangers for weeks, interacting with people who knew nothin' about him, had no knowledge or judgments. And the only two creatures (beautiful damn beings) he'd wanted to see were waitin' for him, right? Or would be, hours on. He had scruff on his jaw and he was tanned shades darker, but his face was lean and slack and what the hell was Gillian gonna say when she saw him? She'd give him a smack (verbal or physical) for looking so bedraggled. And Emily would be just as concerned, just as worried. She took right on after Gill when his general health was in question, nervous and mothering, smothering and worried.

Which, if he was honest with himself, was exactly what had him grinning at himself like a grateful and lucky little loon.

Because having the two of them show him any love at all was gonna be more than he likely deserved, especially after the lunacy he'd pulled.

And that was what really scared him, yeah?

Finding a way to deserve (and keep deserving) that utterly beautiful smothering way the both of 'em annoyed the hell out him, so perfectly so.


	17. Week Fifteen: Gill

_**Week Fifteen: Gill** _

It wasn't her Cal Lightman to get off the plane. Not the more recent version, anyhow.

Because before he'd left he'd been dark and haggard and sallowed by exhaustion – no doubt caused by the fact that he'd been raging and fighting and furious more often than he'd slept. There had been darkness in and under his eyes, and especially after Emily had left. There'd been darkness in his voice and she remembered that more than anything. His clothing had mimed those shadows and been all in shades of black and gray and navy blue.

Before he'd left, he'd been angry. A lonely and desperately raging sort of angry.

One he'd never let her try to help to heal.

It'd been proverbial slap after slap, verbal attack and spar right on up until that last desperate fight.

“Jeez, somebody needs a shower and a shave.”

Gillian didn't lift her head away from watching him from heights above where a line of slightly sleep-tipsy passengers was being wind shocked on the tarmac, all of them seeming to shake themselves back together and awake. She just let her shoulder lean farther into the spacious glass window, her jaw tipping nearer that shoulder as she pressed the side of her curled palm into the glass. Emily was at her other elbow, arms crossed over her petite body as she looked on past Gill's reverie and watched her father tug a duffel up higher onto his shoulder.

It wasn't her Cal Lightman past the glass. Not the one that had gutlessly ditched her hours after telling her his life would be a sweet walk in the park if they didn't have to spend so much time together.

(And while she'd known that'd been a blatant lie off him, it'd still hurt to hear it.)

It wasn't the Cal that was wrapped defensively around a still angry kid, furious with his mother for abandoning him.

It wasn't the drunken and recently divorced Cal that had once made a poorly timed pass at her while she was still married.

It wasn't the man who loved her so viciously that he treated that love like a dangerous poison.

Wasn't the lonely father, either. The one feeling like a silent house was extraordinarily loud around him.

“I dunno, Em.” She noted how much longer and lighter his hair had gotten, sun tinted and long enough to make sweet little half curls where it'd been tucked back behind his ears. “It's sorta how I imagine he looked when he came back the first time.”

She really hadn't realized a pale-assed and foul-mouthed Englishman like Cal Lightman could tan up quite so attractively. The first few phases of sunburn before tanning set in had to have been a bitch.

She really didn't realize either, until then, how much she missed him in white.

Or how much she loved it when he'd rolled his shirtsleeves up and the clean strength in his forearms was so flexed and visible.

“When he came back the first time he smelled like he hadn't showered in a month and mom made him ride in the back seat.” Emily unconsciously let the side of her head into the older woman's upper arm and Gill noted it, but still didn't look away from the way he was squinting against early morning sunlight, obviously trying to find his path into the airport. “Maybe just the shave, though. At least he doesn't look like a sweat puddle this time.”

No. No, shaving wasn't a priority for her, not yet.

Not when she could see from yards up and yards away that there was just enough gray mottling up that short trimmed beard to make her stomach vice and tense.

“I think the beard is...”

Sexy. Undeniably sexy.

He was... well, he was too damn skinny and looked exhausted but... 'Delicious' also worked.

She felt Emily laugh into the fabric on her shoulder more than heard it, felt the young woman's fingers tease up and press into her side. “You checking out my dad, Gill?”

Guilty. Guilty. _Guilty_.

“No, I'm just - ”

“Salivating.” Emily laughed freely, breaking away from the viewing window and already back-stepping toward the gates, one of her fingers up and circling in the direction of the older woman's features. “ _Look_ at the look on your face. It's downright sinful. Not to mention disturbing.”

She just rolled her eyes as Emily bumped by a stranger, laughter still lighting the girl's eyes as Gill pointed forward, “Exit gate. Go.”


	18. Week Fifteen: Cal

**_Week Fifteen: Cal_ **

He'd been gone four months, but it'd taken only four days (fewer, really) to realize that she'd been the sliver living under his skin. To fully understand she was the thing that ached on him when pressed against and, likely, she'd also be the only possible balm. The only thing that could pull the pain out.

And even the honest joy he'd felt when all five-and-some feet of his daughter had plowed directly into his chest couldn't stop that sore point from stinging. Not even with a choking hug that had him lifting his daughter's feet from the floor and swinging her playfully while she finally ( _finally_ , hell he'd missed that sound) gave him a laugh.

It was still there, that little sharp nicking under his skin.

That splinter that had been impossible to extricate or ignore.

He felt that sting flare up as he muttered a mantra of varied ' _I love you_ 's and ' _I'm sorry_ 's into Emily's hair, one arm still clutching her close while the other hand stroked down the back of her head repeatedly. Because he could love his daughter entirely and still lift his head into the way Gillian was watching from a few feet away, tentative and nervous and, bleedin' Christ, she was more gorgeous than he remembered her being. How was that fair? For fuck's sake, the woman had a pact with the Devil for lookin' so good after months apart. Wouldn't it be a sight more fair if she looked just as wrecked as he did? But no, Doctor Gillian Foster looked as exquisite as fuckin' ever.

Especially when she just looped Emily's forgotten jacket over her forearm, clutched it into her center, and mouthed a sweetly silent ' _Hi_ ' from an unbearable distance away. And with a blinding, though edged, smile to match.

“Hello, darling,” he answered softly, letting his jaw set nudging on top of Em's head as she wrapped her arms around his chest and viced up tighter. “Bloody freezin' here, isn't it?”

She looked suddenly perplexed, her lips trapping up in annoyance before she sighed, “There's a jacket for you in the car. I didn't think to - ”

“Forget it,” Cal shunted off, wrapping his arm tighter against Emily's shoulders and rubbing his jaw into her hair. “Not why I said it.”

“But - ”

“Didn't know what else to say, Gill,” he quietly laughed into the explanation, caught the way her eyes softened instantly into that particular shade of blue, the warm one that had no use other than to squeeze his heart and lungs up at once.

“I'm gonna go get the car.” Emily's interruption was soft and more understanding than expected, the knowledge in the way she kissed on his cheek and withdrew made them all a little stilted. “I'll text you where to meet me.”

“Thanks, love,” Cal caught her in and kissed on her cheek again, blinking her a genuine smile as he nodded. “Missed you.”

She didn't answer verbally but he saw the affection and agreement in the way she looked at him, her hand giving his shirt a tug of stalwart support before she pulled away from him entirely and stepped back. He watched her quietly take her jacket from Gill, the movement making the older woman flex her hands open and closed at a sudden loss as to what to do with them. He watched Gill nervously wrap her arms up around herself as Emily retreated and left him on his own to... well, grovel, really.

As he should be doing.

Forgiveness was easy with Emily, right?

Hadn't been ruthlessly throwin' names in _her_ direction before just up and leaving for months.

“You stayin' over there?” Cal asked as he met Gill's glance again, feeling remorse coat his throat and lower the volume of his voice. “I gotta come to you, Foster?”

“I don't know. Maybe,” Gillian murmured, her eyes were moody in their blue but still absolutely interested in staying on him.

He dumped the duffel down to the floor, uncaring of how hard it impacted when he was watching her so intently. People weaved and moved on around him but he watched her face, noted how perfectly still her features were as she stared at him. She was locking him out, blocking him up, just as he'd taught her to do, really. “Just traveled half the world, love. Gimme the last three feet, huh?”

“You're such an ass, Cal.” The accusation was desperate and rife with the memory of hurt. Which, he expected and deserved. Knew that much. But it stuttered his heartbeat a little, the idea that maybe she just wouldn't come any closer. That he'd done the damage enough to break them completely. “And sometimes...”

“I know,” he admitted honestly, blank truth. “I'm sorry.”

Her head jerked up at the apology, jaw biting tight and suddenly he wanted to sink into the floor, puddle down around his own ankles at the sight of near tears in her eyes. “It doesn't just get fixed because you came back, you know?”

“I know.” His jaw lowered in agreement, deference. “Workin' on it, right?”

And it was that unmoving moment. It was make or break. Kiss or kill. Love or hate.

He couldn't stay in this place of having her so close but not having her.

It'd been the damn exact reason he'd left in the first place, hadn't it?

“Gill, please?” he asked as he reached his hand out, fingers down-turned in her direction and feet staying still even as his arm broached the distance between them.

Her fingertips were tentative in reaching back but as soon as he felt their softness in his he jerked onto her hand and pulled her forward, staggering her into him. He couldn't afford to be careful in it, not with as desperate as he was to have her closer. He couldn't afford to play around or tease at her, not in this. He dug her up into his chest and groaned when she wrapped around his ribs and answered that desperate energy with the same tightness. She choked back on what almost sounded like a sob and he murmured another apology in answer, let it rough into her hair as he kissed at the side of her head and tightened his arms at her shoulders. He kept his eyes shut, swayed into how good it felt to just hug the woman – nothin' sexual about it (well, _somethin_ ', but not the overall point). Her face buried into his neck and her breath went warm and sighing exhausted against his throat. Finally felt like he'd made it home, in a way. Just by the comfort of her close.

“Christ, you smell good,” he thoughtlessly hummed into her hair, the opposite hand lifting to cup against the back of her head and keep her close. “Same perfume.”

“Mmm. Always has been.” Both her hands stretched roving up the back up him, palming the sides of his spine before she fisted into the white shirt and clung at it, at him. “There isn't a toddler in that bag, is there?”

“Why? You hopin' there is?”

Just enough breath came off her lips and up his jaw that he was sure she'd laughed a little, felt the humor on her just before she lightly and carefully kissed on his cheek and blew his mind blind. “Just making sure I won't have to try running from the police in these heels.”

“Excellent ones, at that.” Cal agreed quickly, shifting his arms so that he could slope palms down hers and lift up. He switched the way they were holding onto each other even as he spoke, the movement fast and fluid enough that she was caught in it before she'd realized he'd gotten her arms up around his neck and her chest flush up to his. “Make your legs look miles long.”

“I know,” she answered easily, a careful smirk on her as she let her forearms rest into his shoulders and actually touched how long his hair had gotten, reverent-like. She tilted her fingers through it, wiping it back along the side of his scalp and he shut his eyes into the movement, astounded by its very existence. The way she tugged and silked it had him near humming and he forced his eyes back open, lidded and tired.

“Know we can't start over, Gill, but - ”

She shook her head against it, interrupted evenly as he watched her again, “I wouldn't wanna start over.”

Startin' over entirely would be torture, wouldn't? If there was one thing he knew his heart, lungs and general health just couldn't take – falling in love with Foster all over again was definitely it.

It'd kill him dead, so long, farewell.

Was impossible anyhow... They needed all they'd been through, the ugly and fair, to be who they were, standing in front of each other.

“Got alotta history, right?” He felt his smile go wistful, a shrug on him that had her lifting her head back in acknowledgment. Her eyes went gray with understanding and appreciation, even as she nodded slowly. “Good and bad.”

“Sometimes to our own detriment,” she supplied and he was surprised when that soft voice led into her fingers touching down his jaw again, exhaling hard as she tugged against his beard and smiled to herself.

He turned his mouth toward her fingers, felt his lungs lock up as she paused and then pressed fingertips against them with a winsome smile and soft eyes. And for a minute it seemed like time had compressed, four months of space between them hadn't existed, no fighting no hurt, no fear. She was a witch of a woman, could stop time and all. Drove him mad sometimes how easily she could shift the world. And he didn't have an explanation, even after searching around the world for something that seemed like it should have been simple.

Shoulda been easy to find the reason a siren like Gillian Foster loved him much as she did.

He hadn't ever found reason, though. Just evidence, over and over.

She'd been every-goddamn-where, hadn't she?? The way she felt about him had existed in every space, every affectionate look one stranger gave another, in every woman that had laughed or smiled or even just been gentle with him. Every time he'd caught just a slight scent of that particular perfume. 

“Really need to kiss you, Gillian. It's not just a whim. It's just that - ”

Just that she shut him up in the absolute best way she could, her mouth planted on his and both hands dug so tightly into his hair that he felt her nails scrape his scalp and, fuck, she tasted warm. Warm and a little sugary, like coffee and cream and when her fingers started loosening up he just pulled her even closer, one hand flat to her spine and the other braced at her throat. Could feel her moaning up under his thumb and then onto his tongue as he sucked against hers. A whimper crossed between their lips and for the life of him he couldn't actually focus well enough to decide which one of them had made it and, Christ... her hair was so soft against the backs of his knuckles. And her waist, the curve to her hip, it felt so good under his palm. So good he fisted the fabric up in his fingers and jerked her closer, nibbled along her bottom lip as she let him drive his hips forward into hers.

He was astonished by how gently she laid her forehead into his cheekbone when she pulled back, a pant coming off her lips and turning into a whispered kiss on the corner of his mouth. “Don't do it again.”

“Kiss you?” Cal tightened up on her defensively, but playfully. Hadn't meant the kiss, he knew, because she was still brushing her lips up his cheek in a way that was flushing his skin hot. “But, that was just the start, I swear. I'll get better. Plus, I'm tired, ya know? I mean, been a long trip home and you shouldn't judge - ”

“You know what I meant,” she demanded against his cheek on a half laugh and a strangled tone of assertion.

“Yeah, I do.” He grinned and his phone chirped up a sound between them, distracting how dazed he'd gotten with the taste of her on his tongue. “Tired and starvin', Gill. Need some real sustenance, besides the kissing.”

She smiled and nodded downward, “That's Emily.”

“She can wait. She's just sittin' in a car.” The way he brushed it off had a laugh coming up her throat as she leaned back, eyes like a predator fixed on him as she studied his sudden nervous fidgeting. “I mean, come with us, yeah? A meal at home and...”

“And?” she asked quickly, pressing into his chest to keep him from advancing again.

Liked the feel of her palms where they were, though.

Because it wasn't a push back, just sturdy and still. Because she was forgiving, but not stupid, nor cruel.

That was Gillian, right? And the last thing he needed to do was take advantage of it for longer than he already had. 

“Don't want you outta my sight. Least not until I can make you believe me when I say how sorry I am.”

“I do, Cal.” The words would have been more believable on her if she hadn't just barely caught the shrug in one shoulder, the tell to her half lying.

Cal shook his head sharp but countered it softly to keep her from getting defensive. “Naw, that's wishful thinkin' but not trust yet, is it?”

“You left,” she pointed out sharply, hurt resonating out from eyes and voice. Accusatory hurt and he winced on it, even knowing he deserved it.

“Came back for _you_ , though. You and Em.”

“But... the way you left.” The way he'd left had hurt her far more than it'd hurt him. And he felt like an absolute nutter for having stayed away as long as he had.

“You terrify me, darling. Could piss my pants right now, I could.” The truth of it brought a bemused smile to her lips but she still seemed awfully cautious, her fingertips rubbing at fabric and her glance distracted downward toward the movement. “But I'm trying. I am. Right?”

He smiled relief into the way the cup of her palm scruffed up his jaw after a moment, rubbing into the beard he'd debated shaving off. Was sorta glad he hadn't now, though. Especially considering the fact she seemed fascinated by rubbing her knuckles back down it as she studied his mouth and lifted her eyes to his. She was torn up deciding whether to forgive him or not, whether to give in or stand her ground. And, really, she deserved to be stubborn, he knew that much. Had all the rights to indignation. So he stood still and patient, except for the lean of his face farther into her hand and the cocked grin he couldn't tame off his lips. A snorted and silent laugh came off her as she studied that smile, her head shaking minutely back and forth in a sort of acceptance. Acceptance that he was a conniving little shit when he so purposefully smiled at her that way and that, regardless of how angry she was, she liked the look of it.

“Want you, Gill,” he whispered, frowning when he realized she'd drawn up suddenly defensive in his arms. “No, not just like that. Way more than that, yeah? All of it.”

She squinted as she studied him, her eyes thin and questioning before she exhaled hard. “Okay.”

Okay, then. _Okay, here we go then_.

It was a definite start to something.

Something more than he'd dared hope for, really.

After what all he'd done?

“And then some.” He winked at her, encouraged by the way she rolled her eyes at his humor and let him cradle her up a little closer.

“There's a lasagna in your oven that just needs to be warmed up,” she told him blithely, using the closeness to fish into his pocket with her left hand. Cal cocked her a wide-eyed look of interest, at least until she lifted the phone up between them and tapped it into his chest. “Answer your daughter.”

He lifted a hand off her to take the phone, opening the text and typing an answer as he spoke, “You make it? Or Em?”

“I may have, last night.”

“You was at the house last night?” He caught the way she flicked him a side-eyed glance at the thickness of his accent, the intentional abuse of the language. He didn't look up though, just grinned into how some things didn't change and some things were perfect just the way they'd always been. Especially annoying the hell out of her.

“I wasn't going to make Emily stay anywhere but home and she didn't seem to want to be alone.”

“You sleep in my bed?” His head came up from watching his own fingers, blinking before another grin cracked over his lips but haughty this time. Full of Lightman Smug and he damn well couldn't save himself from it. Not when the blush went pinkening over her cheeks and she averted his watching by turning her head away. “You did, didn'tcha? _Aye-aye_.”

Her eyes fluttered closed into his teasing, a long breath drawn in through her nose.

Cal leaned his jaw in closer, blindly hitting send on the affirmative text while watching her head turn a fraction closer to his, stubbornness in her eyes. “Tellin' me my pillow's gonna smell like you, huh?”

“I can change the sheets,” she sniped back as he pocketed the phone, though her voice had more pleasure and sensuality in it than actual annoyance.

“Don't you dare.” He kissed on her jaw, let a rough of stubble brush the spot as another press of his lips landed closer to her ear. “Lasagna for breakfast? Might do.”

There was a distinct joy in her eyes despite the fact she cocked him a supposedly chagrined look, her lips pressed tight to keep from smiling into his tease. “Can we go now? You're an embarrassment.”

“Known that from the start, though,” Cal chuckled into tugging the bag back up, looping the other arm on her waist and tucking her close, enjoying the movement so much more than even he'd expected he would. “You tell anyone I was coming back?”

“Not yet,” she told him perfunctorily, her head lifted into the assertion. “They didn't need to know.”

“You wanted me to yourself,” Cal surmised but kept it quiet, teased it along her cheek as he hitched them closer into hugging than walking. “But graciously shared me with my own daughter anyhow, right?”

“Yes, I did.” Gillian just shrugged, as though the admittance wasn't much important, as though it took nothing at all to say it out loud.

He grinned and watched her face, noted the tiniest twitch of humor along her lips. “Did which?”

“Both.”

Felt the grin come right up over him, same time as her glance went searching for his. “Good.”


	19. Week Fifteen: Gill

**_Week Fifteen: Gill_ **

The worst part was trying to convince herself that it was real, that it wasn't just some dream she'd fallen into before they'd even made it to the airport. The worst part was worrying that, in reality, she was still asleep and desperately wadded around one of his pillows, searching for the scent of him and finding it so close to her, enveloping her.

Because the inherent sense of peace she felt, with him laxed back on the couch beside her, his feet up on the table and Emily sprawled asleep onto his lap from the other side... it seemed like something too close to a dream that she'd end up aching in waking from. One that would have her crying in his empty bed, and him still thousands of miles away. And maybe the smell of him, that spiced heat and aftershave scent, was just a haunt in her head.

It certainly wouldn't have been the first time she'd thought she smelled him close to her shoulder and had found herself devastated to realize he wasn't there.

“Relax, Gill.” His accent was pleading but comfortable, known and welcoming. “Please?”

Her right hand nervously lifted up between them, fingers fluttering a little as she shrugged into obvious embarrassment. “I just keep thinking this can't be real.”

“Well, go on and pinch me then,” he said in agreement, honest surprise filling the quietness of the words.

“What good would that do?”

“Keep thinkin' the same thing, really,” he chuckled, thumb and forefinger rubbing at her earlobe in a way that seemed compulsive, like he couldn't help himself from the touching. “Like maybe, I dunno, I'm just really pissed and unconscious in a gutter somewhere. Dreaming it up, y'know?”

“Mass hallucination? All three of us at once?” She smiled at him, feeling it light up her features as she lifted her glance from the back of Emily's head and the way the girl had curled hands and face against her father's over-extended right knee.

“Possibly,” he hummed out, accent faintly quiet and appealing in how warmly it curved on her. The comforting sound of it so close sank her lower into his side as his fingers left her ear and took a lazy lingering back through her hair. “Or maybe it's just true.”

He had to be doing it on purpose, that lulling with his fingertips up and down the base of her skull, the surety of his hand against her when she hadn't had his hands in sight in months.

Because if it wasn't intentional, and this Cal Lightman was a man who could be so sensually affectionate with her without concern or agitation, unapologetic in the way he obviously cared about her? Oh, she was in _deep_ damn trouble.

Gill hummed a satisfied sound when he found a tightened up muscle, his thumb rubbing up her neck slowly to work at its stubbornness. “That you're home?”

“That I finally got the both of you makin' it extremely hard to breath but in a physical sense rather than metaphorical.” He seemed to sigh pleasantly as he sent a look down over his daughter, a comforting rub up her arm with the heel of his other hand before he rested his right arm back along the couch again. “Weighs a ton more than she used to. Freshman Fifteen, eh?”

Well, still an impertinent little bastard. “ _Cal_.”

He was purposefully mischievous in the lift of his smirk, the way he rashed his jaw against hers so quickly and briefly and just before he chuckled his mouth against hers. Gill let him do it, let him lean in and cup his palm against the back of her head, forcing her still and closer as he nipped lightly at her bottom lip. Such a begging little hum of a sound off him as he licked where his teeth had been. She felt his hand reflexively grip up into her hair when her lips parted, boldly meeting his tongue with hers before she closed the kiss and leaned harder into his shoulder, snugging up into the slow kissing. She let her hand catch onto the shirt he'd changed into after a shower, felt the crispness in the fabric crumple up in her fingers as he sucked along her tongue and brought a moan up her throat.

And she found herself surprised that she wasn't the one to end the kiss.

He did, slowly, with a handful more pressed chastely on her lips before he smiled into intently and closely studying her eyes.

“Stay tonight.” Hell, it sounded like sin and salvation at once, the way he said it as an order and a request. The way it was lilted with a little accent and a beg and a promise in the flush of his voice. But humor and that slim margin of _cheeky-little-shit_ that always lit up the Cal-centric circles of her brain paths. “Stink up my pillow some more, Foster.”

“Okay,” she told him, jaw lifting with seriousness as she stroked the buttons of his shirt flat again. “But no sex yet.”

“No sex _yet_?” His head rolled back heavily onto the couch, settling into the cushion as he studied her face. There was humor and wonderment all over his features and she couldn't help but be surprised by the fact that he was blatantly letting her see it, obviously broadcasting emotions without censure. “ _Yet_ , she says. That a promise? You mean that? As in, there _will_ be sex?”

Gillian snorted a half laugh and started to shake her head away from his taunting, caught suddenly by the grip of his fingers up under her chin. His thumb went rubbing up and down the line of her jaw as he turned her head back to facing him. He was still laxed back into the couch, head tipped toward her as he studied her face and blinked.

“Look at me,” he murmured. “Tell me again.”

“No sex yet, Cal,” she repeated with an intentionally stern look in the direction of his smartassery. “Not until we've talked about - ”

“Y'do mean it.”

She felt herself smile, couldn't fight the urge considering how brightly excited and warm he sounded, how much giddiness bounded out of his whisper. “Cal - ”

“Should probably stop talking about it now, though,” he muttered into kissing her again, faster and rougher and more playfully this time than anything. “Considerin' the company.”

Gill shrugged closer into him in agreement, let herself rest along his side as he let his fingers play into the strands of her hair again.“You wanna tell me about your research instead?”

“That interested, are you? Can't even let me enjoy my first night home?” His head was lolled back on the couch again, weary eyes shut as he fingered her hair and she tentatively lifted her hand, ditching a whole slew of concern and the knowledge that they still had plenty to talk about. Because letting her palm stretch flat against his stomach, inches from where he was sluicing Emily's hair out over his lap with the other hand? She didn't give a damn if it was a dream or not anymore... It was a damn good one. “Nerd.”

“Where were you? When you started?”

“Drunk in Capri, lookin' for you,” he hushed over her, the words swinging almost sadly off him before he recovered by blindly pressing a kiss into her hair. And then another. One more before he nuzzled his nose down by her ear and huffed off a muzzed and relaxed noise.

Gill just smiled into the way his breathing went more even and gently long along her ear, the closeness of him seeming still more like a sort of fantasy than reality. His free hand gentled onto his daughter's shoulder, still unconsciously fiddling with her loose and mussed hair while his legs went entirely relaxed on the coffee table, socked feet and all. There was still a half finished beer beside one foot, her untouched wine beside the other, but neither really mattered. Not when it would have meant moving to reach for them.

“Great name for a book,” she whispered upwards.

She could have sworn she felt him smile even as he got right on the line of dozing off, “Thought so, m'self.”


	20. Week Sixteen: Cal

They'd lasted all of thirty six hours, little less actually.

Near three days with each other close, the scent of her around the house, and her trying to get him to ' _open up_ ' and speak and say the sorts of things he'd never had an easy time of sayin' to anyone besides his own daughter, let alone someone important as her. And him just trying to find solid footing in a place so different than the one he'd left, right? She was too damn understanding of why he'd left and how he'd done it and, well, it was still Gill, yeah? She didn't give him an inch of rope except to hang himself by and he did so, strung himself up on apologies and he'd smirked when she'd finally just thunked her coffee up to the island counter and rolled her eyes and given him a mouthful of _“If you don't stop just randomly apologizing I'm gonna - ”_

_“Gonna what? Eh, Foster?”_

She'd just let him lead her up close by the waist, hands groping her tighter. _“Talk_ to _me, not_ at _me, Cal.”_

And he'd just grinned into her assertion, noting the obvious haziness of arousal in her eyes as his thumbs had started rubbing back and forth passes on her ribs. _“Look at me and stop talkin' nonsense, Gill.”_

_“You have beautiful eyes.”_

He'd known it, in that moment, when she'd gone swoony and starry-eyed and smiling to herself ('cause that smile wasn't for him, none at all, that was her own pleasure and pride). He'd known that forgiveness had probably been given up somewhere along the lines of late night phone calls and intercontinental talks when she shoulda been sleeping. That letting her see every emotion he could find in himself written on his face was the only way of having her, having more than just her forgiveness, being able get closer than just curling her comfortably into his bed and watching her sleep while he tried to sort himself out in the middle of the night. He'd known that he could have her then, just by the way her nose had sweetly scrunched up just before a smile had rioted all over her face, every inch of those features he now knew better than any others in the damn world – and he'd recently seen plenty. He knew that her holding out, being stubborn with him... it was more about giving him the time to accept being home and finding footing in what would likely be the only certifiable 'relationship' he ever had again rather than punishing him. Though, he _was_ gettin' a little punishment, but with a sweetness that made it seem less like penance and more like days on days of sensual foreplay.

She knew he loved her with an obvious madness (and he knew she knew it).

She knew he had to find a way to meet that madness head on, that he'd had to go and come back again and re-adjust in order to be able to accept that fact.

She had known, all along, that he'd needed time.

God, the woman was bloody fuckin' terrifying, had always been.

“You're so loud when you think too much.” Her hand scrunched up the fabric of his t-shirt and tugged at it to enforce her words. And her face dowsed down into the fabric, rubbing hard and pressing weight against his ribs as she snugged closer. “Shut up.”

Cal let a muted sound valve off his throat, turning his jaw down onto his chest to look over the way she was keeping her face buried in cotton. “Didn't make a sound.”

“You fidget. Stop being fidgety.”

He intentionally angled his arm, wiping the warm dampness on his right forearm against the fabric of the barely buttoned shirt she'd stolen from his closet nights before. “Yeah, and who's been droolin' on my arm?”

So, yeah, all in all, they'd lasted about three days.

Because when she blinked up annoyance at him for his teasing, hair adorably messed over her face, he couldn't stop himself from leaning into how comfortably she made him ache from lungs to gut to cock and right all the way back up again. He gambled hard and kissed her the way he'd wanted to for fucking _years_. He pulled her up and took her leaning onto the comfort of a shared bed. Both hands went digging up into her hair while he drove his tongue into her mouth and stretched the entire length of himself right up the front of her. The way the mattress shifted as she went loose and lax beneath him, it was glorious - because it was one thing he'd never thought to add into the fantasy. It was physical, it was solid, it was reality. His knees at her sides and intentionally pressing down into her as he watched her head sink back into one of his pillows and he was... stupefied. Utterly fuckin' mind-blasted and gone to the way she smiled with her eyes shut and pressed her scalp closer to the fingers of his right hand. She nuzzled her head up farther into his fingertips, turning her face into the stretch of his forearm and her lips, her tongue and teeth, all went skidding on inked skin.

Thought maybe he'd died a moment, least until he realized she was kissing her way closer to his wrist. Until he realized she was doing it with intent and purpose and fuck, her fingers were the lightest of touches up along the other side of his rib cage. Up under his shirt and nails scraping skin and how the hell did the woman find a way to melt his brain out his ears when he was very clearly tryin' to make things happen the other way 'round? She was dangerous, traitorous, mischievous and fucking delicious all at once. Always tipping his thoughts upside down when he didn't expect it. Always being her, being there, being what he hadn't even realized he'd been needing or wanting in the first place, right?

Always... just _Gill_. Gillian, being sweet and simply cute in his bed, in his shirt, in silken knickers that she'd managed back right into his crotch hours before. So, yeah, of course he'd been awake in the early hours of morning, trying to talk down his body with any non-salacious thought he could muster.

Dead puppies, oil spills, wrecked cars on the roadside, roadkill, carrion, carry-ons, luggage, baggage, airports, coming home, _Gillian_... silky knickers.

Just circled right back, really. And she damn well knew it.

“ _Gill_?” He felt the groaning rumble up through his own throat and beg its way just along the slope of her jaw, pelvis driving down into her and every last available coherent neuron screaming curses at the fact that he'd already spent two more nights than he would have liked just laying beside her rather than, well, buried inside her. “I just - ”

“I'm not stopping you,” she shushed into the reflexive curl of his hand, her lips landing in the center of his palm.

“You're really not, are ya?” Cal took advantage of how confidently she was enjoying him, lifted his hand into stroking down her cheek and turning her back to facing him, fingers on her jaw. “Eh?”

“Nope.”

Dazzling smiles seemed like something she just kept in the non-existent pockets of a pilfered shirt and he couldn't help but match the grin, shifting lower against her as she made an effort of drawing her legs up. One hand went slapping at his knee playfully to get him to switch around. He exhaled hard into how easy it seemed to just sink into her as she made a playful show of wrapping around him, arms slinging on his shoulders before her kiss landed into his hair. Then she wrapped her legs along his hips and nothing in his brain worked anymore except the reflexive need to breath while rubbing his mouth down her throat and letting his tongue taste against warm skin.

“Why now, huh?” He asked it while he kissed the inner curve of one breast, wondering it aloud really as he lathed his tongue on skin he'd fantasized about for longer than fucking ever.

A happy noise sounded off between her lips, quiet but utterly content as she nicked her fingernails along his scalp and enjoyed the length of his hair. “I get all warm and fuzzy on holidays.”

She very obviously liked his hair a little longer, kept gently sluicing her fingers through it.

Just the same as she kept rubbing knuckles along the shortly trimmed beard he'd kept even days after stepping off the plane.

“Y'do, a little,” he grinned into admitting, lifting his head into the way she was teasing at his hair, the smile going wider when he noted how sated she already looked, how full of herself and her pleasure she seemed as she smirked back and finger-tipped a line across his forehead.

“Makes me a soft touch,” Gill murmured, wiping down his cheek before finding his lips. He took quick advantage of the movement and nipped his teeth onto her, sucked her finger into his mouth and let his eyes shut into the sultry little sound that flexed up her throat in response. “I'd think a man like Cal Lightman would take advantage of that.”

She tapped his lips as she withdrew, eyes shading darker in their blue as he watched her stretch and fidget under him, near nervous. Excited. Absolutely aroused. “I'd think a minx like Gillian Foster woulda known that ahead of time and taken precautions.”

“I did. Last night.” Her hips flexed up into his, impatient and leading and, hell, she was a goddamn saint and siren at once. “That's why I asked Emily to make one last grocery run this morning.”

“Sent my daughter off on a wild goose chase?”

Her smile was wicked, winsome and nothing of Doctor Gillian Foster. Except that he knew, realistically, it was _all_ Gillian Foster in design. “Supposed elusive cranberry hunt, actually.”

He grunted pure humor and surprise, feeling his grin go wide and reckless as he shrugged and started sloping farther down the front of her. “Goin' on a hunt of my own, then.”

“For what?”

“How many freckles you got down here?” he asked, swaying his voice quietly conversational and keeping his face near perfectly curious rather than leering, watching the smirk that drifted her lips as he lifted against the bottom hem of too much fabric. “Sneaky little buggers. Gotta find 'em all.”

She laughed freely into the open space of his bedroom as he ducked his head under the hem of the half buttoned shirt, making a show of pulling it over his head and growling kisses down her ribs. “Cal!”

For every laugh she gave him, he laid a kiss down the front of her. At least til it turned to happy moaning.

Then it was his game, his home turf, his time. _His_ Gillian.

She put both her hands digging into his hair and then he knew he was really, this time, _really_ home.


	21. Week Sixteen: Gill

He went from playful and giddy to desperate, demanding. And it happened suddenly, in a way that could have been terrifying on any other man than Cal Lightman. But she knew the depth of his intensity could be fathomless in the midst of something that drove him, something that encompassed him. And she'd never before had the confidence (in him, in herself, in them together) to really admit that there wasn't much else (besides his daughter and work) that drove or motivated him quite so much as _she_ did. That alone was empowering, strong and steady. That alone made her hazy, woozy and put heat through her lungs, into her stomach and thighs. That alone distracted her as he ditched clothing and propriety and any embarrassment either of them could have felt with quick movements and rough hands.

But then, didn't hurt that he was excellent with those hands and mouth and, Jesus Christ, he'd gotten her to come in minutes just with little whispers between her legs and a knack for knowing just where to touch and when and how.

And how in the hell could he know her so quickly, so insanely well?

Her reactions, her body, each hitch in her breath.

How in the hell could she ever have imagined he wouldn't?

“I'm sorry.”

Gill sucked down a strong breath to tame her lungs, both palms skidding up his cheeks to force him to look at her as he leaned back up and over the now open shirt and the sweat that was forming along her throat. “ _Stop_ telling me you're sorry.”

“I mean b'cause this isn't gonna last long, darling,” he groaned up under her ear, lowered his mouth to her throat and let his teeth mark on fair skin. “Feel like a bloody fifteen year old.”

“Isn't that a good thing?” she laughed out, enjoying how possessively he curled the flat of his palm onto the back of her thigh and tugged her leg higher on his hip.

His beard rashed her red wherever his teeth hadn't and she whimpered as he jerked her hips up, teasing his length against her, intentionally driving his hips up and forward to slide against wetness. The groan that laid out of his lungs and onto his lips made the skin tingle up her neck and the back of her hairline, shivering her pleasantly under him. He made the movement again, lifting his head in response the whimper she gave off, a smile that seemed, at once, both adoring and predatory on his lips. His weight went to his side and she felt him reach between them, pinning her leg high up against him as his hand went between her legs. The smile he was giving her went melting on a groan as he dragged the tip of his length against her clit and brought them both to a sort of simultaneous shivering. Hers was all in the hips and his tensed his shoulders so tightly she figured he'd ache from it throughout Thanksgiving dinner.

He was coiled up hard under her stroking hands, keeping himself surprisingly pent and controlled, despite the fact she could feel the bandy strength of him up under flushed and heated skin.

“Just don't judge me too harshly on the duration, eh? Least not this time.”

She turned her lips onto his cheek and sighed, keeping her voice light and warm, “You gonna shut up, Lightman?”

He'd been begging at the beginning and giddy in between. He'd gone through sweet and even gentlemanly (making sure she'd gotten off before he'd even really gotten started?). It was desperate, nearly. When he made a humming sound in his throat, not even daring to voice the question but pleading it between them. He made that pliant sound against the corner of her smile and when she nodded he groaned a kiss against her lips and pushed into her at once.

She knew she was done in to him then. When he clutched her up close and made such a welled sound of relief and happiness and pleasure from the base of his lungs.

“One more question?” His voice was choked up and guttered deep, accent mumbling up the words as he tried to swallow air into his chest and, God, he felt good. Just as she'd expected and still somehow better, somehow more, somehow... right. Somehow she knew that regardless of how long it lasted, this was Epic's End, story told. “Not dreamin', Gill, am I?”

She pinched at his hip in answer, quickly and with tight fingers and a wicked smile.

“ _Oi_!” The surprise in his voice went strangled up and choked and halfway between pain and lust as he caught her hand up and locked it between them, gripping on her fingers before kissing her chastely. “What's that for?”

She just smiled wider, letting him pin her beneath him while he very blatantly studied her face. He had that stupid cocky grin of his on his lips, the one that said his happiness was undiluted, full strength and full of mischief. “You're not dreaming.”

That smile went more loving than she'd expected. “Home now, yeah?”

She turned her head and kissed his ear, felt his hair brush tickling on her nose before she drove her face into his neck and moaned, letting him drive deeper into her as she wrapped tighter around tensed shoulders. “Yes.”

_Yes_.

“Okay.”

_Okay_. More than _okay_. More than _all right_.

Home was the moment and not the place. Home was them, this.

Home was something that lived under the skin, she thought.


End file.
